


divine by loving

by lipsstainedbloodred



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Idk this was very self indulgent, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, lots of song quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: a series of vignettes of aziraphale and crowley learning to navigate a relationship after the world didn't end
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 132





	divine by loving

It begins, on some sunny morning just weeks after the world was supposed to end, with a vase of flowers and a note. The lilacs are stunning, surrounded by baby’s breath and something green Aziraphale doesn’t remember the name of but looks lovely nonetheless. They’re the one bright spot amongst the dust motes and lazy spill of sunlight through half slotted blinds. A folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, sits beneath the vase and Aziraphale opens it as carefully as he can. Inside Crowley’s sprawling, carefully messy handwriting takes up only a small portion of the thick paper. 

_ “My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you--“ _

He’s smudged the ink over the word ‘love’ like he couldn’t resist running a thumb over the word before the ink had dried. Aziraphale’s finger brushes over it and his lips pull into a smile. He puts the note down and has the phone cradled in his hand before he’s thought about what he’s doing.

Crowley, remarkably, picks up on the second ring.

“Hello dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at the lilacs, “I was wondering if you might want to get some lunch?”

*

Summer nudges its way into fall the way it has a tendency to do. The mornings grow crisp, sun coming into the sky later and leaving it earlier. The trees in St. James’ Park turn a multitude of spectacular colors. Vibrant purples, striking orange, muted gold. Aziraphale likes taking their walks in the early evening, before the sun has had time to set, after the heat of the day has already been bundled off and sent to bed. They walk, hand clasped in hand, down set paths with no real intention of going anywhere.

It’s nice. To finally be allowed this, to finally have the time.

“Robin,” Aziraphale says, pointing up at the sweet little redbreast hiding amongst the leaves. He’s always liked bird watching, and Crowley does too, though he sometimes complains that it leaves him feeling a little hungry afterward.

“Goldfinch,” Crowley echoes, gesturing with his head toward a bush.

They wind around the duck pond, stopping momentarily so Aziraphale can toss a handful of birdseed in their direction before starting off again. Overhead the sky turns a brilliant orange, clouds a cotton candy sugar pink spun thin and high above the trees. A bird arcs overhead, striking dark against the light. 

“Blackbird.” Aziraphale says and Crowley looks up.

“Wonder if there are enough to make a pie.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley’s thumb dances over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing absently at the skin there. “Dove,” Crowley says after a long silence.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley’s thumb stops rubbing and he pauses, thrown for a moment, before bursting into laughter. He points up into a tree at two doves, pressed close together. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks heat.

Crowley tugs him toward a bench, under the nearby tree. “Would you like that?” He asks, “Names like that?”

“Crowley, don’t make fun--”

“I’m not!” He sits down, taking up half of the bench by himself. “I’m not, angel, I swear.” He takes both of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “I just...I didn’t know you’d go for that, really.”

“I wouldn’t normally,” Aziraphale says, shuffling his feet, still standing, “it’s different when it’s you.”

Crowley’s lips form a little ‘o’, his eyebrows scrunching together like he’s thinking. “Angel,” He says, and this time it sounds deliberate. “Dove.” He kisses the back of one hand-- “Sunshine.” --and then the other. “My everything.” He tugs, so Aziraphale will bend down to kiss him and Aziraphale does, their noses bumping together briefly. He tugs again and Aziraphale falls willingly, resting his weight on Crowley’s lap, hands entwined. Crowley’s mouth tastes faintly like a burnt match might, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind it in the slightest. He opens his lips to let Crowley’s tongue touch his, a spark of heat at his core. “My one,” Crowley says against his mouth, breathless, “my only, my l--” He makes a sound like it hurts, like he’s bitten the inside of his mouth.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, “dearest, starshine, my heart, my  _ love _ .”

“Oh,” Crowley says and squeezes his hands, “Yes.  _ Yes _ .”

They’re pressed so close now, cheek to cheek and chest to chest. It takes an age to separate themselves from one another. Long after the moon makes its way warm and full over the treeline, long after the stars began to show themselves, hazy balls of light so very far away.

*

Crowley makes himself comfy in Aziraphale’s reading chair, long limbs sprawled in odd directions in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable and certainly doesn’t look to be. He holds a glass of wine delicately in one hand, cradling the bottom of it like one would a newborn child. He looks good, pleasantly buzzed already, the tips of his ears a charming pink and his cheeks flushed. “I’m just saying,” Crowley says, gesturing with his other hand, his foot bouncing in the air, “I’m just-- what was I saying?”

Aziraphale laughs. He’s pleasantly drunk himself, his cheeks and the tip of his nose hot. “Roses?”

Crowley snaps his fingers and points at him. “Roses!” He declares, “Rotten for romance. Smell atrocious, all covered in thorns. Now the orchid, that’s-- that’s a fine flower.”

“Mm.”

“No bloody thorns on--” he takes a sip of his wine, nearly spilling it over his chin in his haste to continue talking, “No thorns on a good orchid. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Aziraphale is tickled just watching him. The over exaggerated swing of his leg, the slump of his shoulders, the gentle flush of his face. Crowley puts down his wine glass, like he’s made a statement, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. Aziraphale doesn’t try to fight the smile that blooms across his mouth. “So you wouldn’t get me any?”

“Any what?”

“Roses,” Aziraphale says, teasing, “You wouldn’t get me any roses? Even if I asked?” 

Crowley’s wild foot smashes into the end table and nearly sends his glasses and wine glass flying in his haste to sit up straight. “If you asked?” His eyes go wide, luminous. “Angel, I would get you the moon if you  _ asked _ . Don’t you know?”

“Hm?”

Crowley opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He furrows his brows, looking bewildered. He opens his mouth again and then shuts it. “Come here,” He growls, reaching out a hand. 

Aziraphale sets down his wine and goes.

The next morning there are orchids on his vanity, pale blue, like they’ve always been there.

*

Crowley opens the door of the Bentley for him. He looks dashing in a smart black suit, deep blood red shirt and black tie. His boots are so red they almost look black and Aziraphale wonders for a moment if they just look like snake skin or if Crowley has just taken to forming his feet to look like shoes. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s cheek as he gets into the car. He smooths a hand over his own grey suit, fiddling with the snake eye cufflinks as Crowley slides on the other side.

The Bentley roars to life, music spilling from its speakers almost immediately. Something soft and so sweet it makes Aziraphale rest his hand on Crowley’s knee and squeeze.  _ “But touch my tears with your lips, touch my world with your fingertips, and we can have forever, and we can love forever.” _ Crowley peels out, cutting off two cars and scaring a flock of pigeons into flight, but his hand when he rests it atop Aziraphale’s is gentle.

“You have the tickets, of course?” Aziraphale asks, closing his eyes when Crowley drives over a curb to skip a roundabout and several cars blare their horns in fear and confusion.

“Course I do,” Crowley says happily, swinging wildly around a curve.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, digging his nails into Crowley’s knee, hearing Crowley’s answering laugh. “You could at least pretend to care about traffic laws.”

“What would I want to do that for?”

“ _ Crowley _ \--” 

The Bentley slows considerably and Aziraphale feels Crowley pat the top of his hand. “You can open your eyes.” He sounds too amused for his own good. 

Aziraphale peels one eye open and then the other, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Really, my love, it’s like you enjoy nearly giving me a heart attack every time we go somewhere.” 

“Now you’re getting it,” Crowley says brightly. He pulls up outside the Royal Opera House. Cars aren’t meant to be parked here, but Aziraphale knows when they leave later there won’t be a parking ticket in sight. Crowley gives his hand a little squeeze and gets out first to open the door for him, offering his hand.

Aziraphale finds himself a little short of breath, if he’s honest. The light flashes off of Crowley’s feather cufflinks and Aziraphale smiles, taking his hand, letting himself be pulled up. Crowley guides him inside with a steady hand at the small of his back. He takes their tickets from his suit jacket, and Aziraphale barely makes out  _ Orph…& Eur… _ from under Crowley’s thumb.

“ _ Orpheus & Eurydice _ ?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums the affirmative. “Something new,” He explains and then frowns, “Unless you’d prefer--?”

“No, no. New is-- new can be good.”

“It’s not too late,” Crowley stops, letting people walk around them, “There’s a showing of  _ Carmen  _ tonight as well, and there’s always  _ Tosca _ .”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches up to cup his face, fingers tracing briefly over the edge of his glasses, “It will be lovely, I’m sure.”

Crowley leans into him, blowing out a breath. “Just want to treat you right, angel.”

“You spoil me darling,” Aziraphale assures, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth, his heart swelling in his chest, “You really do.”

“Deserve to be spoiled,” Crowley mumbles, clearing his throat and straightening back up, “Well, shall we?”

Aziraphale links their arms together, patting Crowley’s bicep. “After you.”

*

It’s a bad day. Winter has creeped its way into the bones of the bookshop and the little flat upstairs, shiny blades of ice clinging to the streets and windows. The cold makes Aziraphale’s leg ache, an ancient wound that shouldn’t bother him in his corporeal form but does nonetheless when the wind outside turns biting and brittle and brutal in it’s coldness. He lights the fireplace and leaves the space heater on but nothing seems to be able to chase the chill from the rooms. 

Crowley is insufferable like this. He whines, he snaps, he sneers. He’s a snake through and through and nothing Aziraphale does is good enough.

“Let’s go away,” Crowley mutters, stomping around the bedroom in his silk pajamas and bundled in a thick wool blanket. “Let’s just go away.”

“Where?” Aziraphale snaps. He’s cold enough, sore enough, irritated enough that he can’t stop himself. “Alpha Centauri?” The way he says it does not come out nice.

Crowley freezes, shooting him a withering look. It’s enough of a sore spot that he goes back to bed, pulling the blankets back over himself. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley is blessedly, dreadfully silent.

“You’re being childish, Crowley.”

The blanket lump does not move.

“I’m going down to the shop,” Aziraphale sniffs. He does not slam the door shut behind himself, but only just barely. 

The shop is colder than the flat and if anything it worsens his mood. He makes himself tea from the electric kettle in the back room and then promptly forgets about it, finding stacks of books to straighten and reshelve. He opens the blinds in the shop and then closes them again upon seeing the dismal, dreary gray streaked streets outside. He flops into his reading chair and massages his leg.

Upstairs he can hear the bump and thump of Crowley moving around, and then the shuffle of his feet on the stairs as he comes down into the shop. He’s still bundled in that blanket, cranky eyed and frowning, but he makes his way over to Aziraphale and settles himself into his lap.

Aziraphale starts at the feeling of ice cold fingers dipping under his jumper and he grabs them, bringing the hands up to his face. He breathes warm air over cool skin, rubs life into the fingers with his palms. Crowley sags against him, the fight draining out of the both of them at once. Crowley wiggles his hands free so he can knead Aziraphale’s leg, gently working the muscles around the sore spot. Aziraphale sighs against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, hands digging into the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders to wrap around them both. “I’m having a bad day.”

“Me too.” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s face in his hands, brushing his nose over his temple before kissing his forehead.

Crowley’s hands dig a little harder into his leg. “Angel, I--” He takes a shaking breath and then shakes his head a little, “Nothing.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his eyes a little wet, “that.”

*

_ “ I couldn’t utter my love when it counted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now. And I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now.” _

Aziraphale follows the music to his kitchen. Crowley humming along in the early morning light filtering in through gossamer white curtains, his hands steady and sure as he chops vegetables and moves them into the pan. He’s bare except for a pair of boxers slung low on his hips. Aziraphale almost wants to lecture him on the dangers of cooking without proper clothes but instead has to lean against the doorframe to steady himself. There’s a gathering of scales at the small of Crowley’s back that glimmer like an oil slick in the soft sunlight, another little patch trailing up his neck and behind his ear. Aziraphale knows if he got a good look at the soles of Crowley’s feet he would have a delightful little patch of scales there as well. He’s enamored with the edges where pale skin meets smooth dark scale and has to hold onto his own hands to stop himself from touching.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley starts, turning around. “I didn’t know you were up,” He says, cheeks pink, scratching at the back of his head. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“I heard music,” Aziraphale smiles, “I heard you singing.”

“Ah,” Crowley’s cheeks darken and he clears his throat, turning back around to add eggs to the pan. “That.”

Aziraphale can’t stand not touching him. He presses his chest to Crowley’s back and hugs his waist, tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing Crowley’s shoulder, “that.”

Crowley is quiet for a time. The kind of peaceful, relaxed quiet that means he’s just enjoying being in the moment. Aziraphale kisses those glittering scales behind his ears and smiles when Crowley shivers. “Pest,” Crowley hisses with no real bite. He smacks Aziraphale’s hand with his spatula. “If you’re going to be in here you might as well be useful. Set the table?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his waist, places a kiss to his bare shoulder, and goes.

*

The moonlight dripping in from the frost covered windows is gossamer soft, kissing sweetly over pale skin and dark scales, whispering across dark hair and eyelashes. Aziraphale watches him from across the room, propped against the doorframe as he is, reading glasses slipping down his nose and book in hand. Crowley sleeps rather a lot in the winter, and Aziraphale likes to watch him sleep. 

There’s something vulnerable about Crowley in sleep. Awake he’s all coiled muscle and perpetual movement. Drumming fingers, thumping foot, taps of pens against the table.  _ 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 _ . He is confident and cocky, headstrong, headsure, steadfast. He’s a barely concealed grin, a bubble of laughter, the wink of an eye. Asleep he is none of those things. Crowley asleep is something heartbreaking, heartbroken; fragile like the hollow bones of his wings. And trusting. Aziraphale knows he’s the only being alive that’s ever seen Crowley like this, fidgety hands finally still against the pillowcase, face unlined and unworried. 

Aziraphale crosses the room and sits by him, smoothes the fringe back from his forehead with a gentle touch. Crowley rouses beneath him, just a little. “‘Ziraphale?” He mumbles, barely opens his eyes before he’s closing them again. Trusting and so very sweet.

“Yes, starshine,” Aziraphale says, “Just me. You can stay there.”

Crowley curves toward him like he’s magnetized, the way he has done every night since their first together. He feels a barely there kiss to his hip, Crowley’s face pressed against his leg and arm sliding up over his lap. “Like it here.” He mumbles, “Warm.”

Aziraphale hums and scratches at his scalp, drawing a hoarse groan from his love’s throat. Smiling, forgetting his book temporarily, he slips down until their nose to nose, sharing breath. Crowley cracks an eye at him. Smothers his own fond smile by pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s.

Privately, Aziraphale thinks Crowley’s sleep soaked kisses are the sweetest ones. Not that he’d ever tell him that. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks, breaking away. 

Crowley hums in question, nosing along his jaw, his neck, finding where his pulse beats a wild rabbit pace against his skin and applies his lips and tongue. 

Aziraphale shudders and tightens his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Focus, please.”

Crowley makes a rather fetching noise at that but obeys, picking his head back up to look at Aziraphale. He’s lovely like this too. Cheeks pink, eyes hazy with sleep and a little something more, lips red from kissing and sucking and biting. 

“I brought a book with me,” Aziraphale says, “thought you might like to read it?”

“To you?” Crowley asks, sleepy soft and kiss dazed. “Give it here.”

Aziraphale passes him the book and they curl together, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Voice soft, honey soaked with warmth and grand affection, Crowley began to read. “ _ The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden... _ ”

*

Spring comes in a bloom of flowers and sun scented air. There’s a carpet of wildflowers rolling past as Crowley drives them further into the countryside. They have no real destination planned, just the two of them and all the time in the world. The radio plays soft and sweet in the background.  _ “You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart…”  _ Aziraphale turns his head to watch Crowley. His face is relaxed, lax, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley looks good like this, soft in the mid-morning light streaming in through the window as they pass fields of rolling green. Crowley brings their combined hands up and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s, his lips soft and warm against the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale scoots as close as his safety belt will allow. 

“We should stop to see Anathema and Newton,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley hums in acknowledgement, kissing Aziraphale’s hand once more before setting it back down. They’d already been heading in the direction of Lower Tadsfield. Crowley points the Bentley in the direction of Anathema’s cottage.

“It might be nice to bring them something, as well,” Aziraphale says, “that’s the thing to do, isn’t it? Bring someone a gift when you visit.”

“There’s a bottle of wine in the backseat.” 

“Oh! Yes, that will be lovely.”

Crowley nods, his thumb rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale leans over to kiss his shoulder, lips against dark linen. “Then maybe we can go see the children. Wouldn’t that be nice, Crowley?” 

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley says, a little strained, a little breathless, “We can do whatever you want.” 

*

Sunlight filters through the new leaves of young spring trees, breaking across the red tartan blanket that Crowley had rolled his eyes at but packed fondly along with the tan wicker basket. Aziraphale isn’t ashamed to admit he took his time planning this picnic. Deviled eggs, finger sandwiches, a lovely little charcuterie board from the darling Italian deli in Soho, fresh bread from Flor, jam from the market in Tadfield, scotch eggs and wine and tea in a thermos that matched the blanket. And lastly a beautiful angel food cake that Crowley had made a cheery noise at and tried to keep for himself. 

Crowley is spread out flat in the grass just a little bit away, soaking up the sun like, well, something cold blooded basking upon a rock. Music drifts between the two of them from Crowley’s phone, something smooth and slow and earthy. It’s all a bit romantic really. Aziraphale pops the last deviled egg in his mouth and hums, sucking the remains off his thumb. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns toward him, smiles. 

Two days ago Crowley had left a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in butcher paper on the counter of his bookshop and a scribbled note about how beautiful the weather was to be over the weekend and they really ought to travel to the country more. Crowley frankly had all the subtlety of a fox in a hen house. 

“Need something, angel?” Crowley asks. 

An errant ant makes away with a crumb left over from the cake, empty plate glinting in the late afternoon sun. The wind curls along the grass and through Crowley’s hair like fingers. Aziraphale almost loathes to ask it, Crowley looks so comfortable; but he is weak and a little selfish. 

“Come here?” 

Crowley’s smile shifts into something soft, softer. “‘Course.” He falls into Aziraphale’s waiting arms and tugs him in close until Aziraphale is half laying on him on top of the picnic blanket. “Close enough?”

_ No _ , Aziraphale thinks, lips pressed to Crowley’s throat,  _ never _ . If they shared a body maybe,  _ maybe _ , but maybe not even then. “Yes,” Aziraphale says instead, “thank you, dear.”

“Don’t have to thank me,” Crowley mumbles, face buried in Aziraphale’s hair, “not for this.”

The wind ripples past, tickling the edge of his trousers, the edge of his coat catching and flapping. The grassy hill smells sweet but Crowley’s skin is sweeter pressed as it is under Aziraphale’s nose. He tangles his hand in Crowley’s waistcoat, just holding. 

Crowley hums, boneless and lax beneath him, hands skimming and skipping over clothed skin and nothing at all. Wandering, wondering. Aziraphale catches a hand as it flies past and brings it to his mouth, pressing fleeting kisses to lily white knuckles and a calloused palm. 

Music drifts over them sweetly, soft and cosy as a blanket. Aziraphale can’t remember the artists name but he likes it, ethereal and earthy and heady. Crowley makes a soft noise and nudges at him. 

“Dance with me, I like this song.” 

Hardly a request Aziraphale could ever turn down. Aziraphale pulls them both up to standing, Crowley keeping their hands tangled as they sway together. 

“ _ Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.” _

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley shivers against him. “Yeah,” he mumbles, and tilts his head down for a kiss. 

*

There’s a note stuck to the mirror of his vanity, as there has been every morning since Crowley started staying the night. 

Manila yellow with a painstakingly inaccurate little rose on the bottom it reads  _ “But here we are and something about it doesn’t feel like an accident. / We’re all looking for something to adore / and how to survive the bending and breaking.” _

Aziraphale takes it down with dove-light fingers, mouth a wobbly thing as he cradles the note in his hands. 

In the top drawer of his vanity sits a box, an engraved silver case older than even his bookshop. Aziraphale opens it and places the note inside, atop the other notes, the many dried flowers, his ring from the sixteenth century, the pearls from the necklace he’d worn to Queen Elizabeth I’s coronation. A box much bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. 

He runs his finger over a molted black feather before shutting the case and locking the drawer, his heart too big for his chest. 

*

Aziraphale wakes up in his reading chair to Crowley tugging gently at his ear. “You’re getting old,” Crowley teases, grinning. 

“‘M not.” Aziraphale grumbles, batting Crowley’s hand away. 

“You are.” Crowley’s hand brushes his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “Sleeping in your reading chair like an old man.”

“Quiet, you.” Aziraphale says. He grabs Crowley’s dancing hands out of the air and tugs until he has the demon fully seated in his lap. Aziraphale noses at Crowley’s exposed neck, pressing a line of sharp kisses along the skin from jaw to collar bone. Crowley really does have lovely collar bones. 

Crowley squirms. “No, angel, come on I have a surprise.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale bites down on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Ah-  _ angel _ .” Crowley protests, trying and failing to sound cross. 

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale says, soothing the bite with a kiss, “show me your surprise then.”

Crowley clambers out of Aziraphale’s lap and tugs until they’re both standing. He leads him upstairs, hands tangled, nudging open the door to Aziraphale’s flat with his foot. In the middle of the room is a claw foot tub, steam curling up in ribbons from the water. A low table nearby has a glass and bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Sinatra is playing from the record table in the corner, “ _ Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more. You are all I long for all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.” _

“ _ Oh, _ ” Aziraphale breathes, his eyes wide. 

“Surprise,” Crowley teases, squeezing his hand. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, “This is- you-“ 

There are times when Crowley smiles that Aziraphale thinks ‘ _ I could not love you any more than I do now or I would overflow with it. _ ’ This is one of those times. Crowley, smiling, soft and fond and teasing. The kind of smile you give someone you’ve loved your whole life. The kind of smile that comes from knowing and being known. 

Aziraphale blinks, a little misty eyed, and draws Crowley against him for a kiss. Tastes all the love curled up there at the corners of Crowley’s mouth greedily, his hands caressing and touching where he can. He doesn’t pull away until Crowley is sufficiently weak kneed and pink cheeked, and even then he only draws back enough to knock their foreheads together. 

“Marry me,” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley breathes in sharply, eyes impossibly wide, and Aziraphale fears for a moment he might have made a mistake. Then Crowley clings to him, hands digging sharply into his waistcoat, and says, “Yes.” He sounds hoarse, like the thought has robbed him of all his air. “ _ Yes. _ ”

And that smile. There is nothing, not in Heaven or Hell or on Earth, as dear to Aziraphale as that smile. And he falls in love all over again. 


End file.
